sissy neville
by Little Needle
Summary: Neville is a sissy -- what will Prefect Draco do about it?


Author: Little Needle  
  
Category: Angst, Drama  
  
Keywords: Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, sissy, Draco Malfoy  
  
Rating: PG13  
  
Summary: Neville is a sissy -- what will Prefect Draco do about it?  
  
A/N & Dedications: I originally wrote this for Venivincere on a whim. Then it turned out Libertine liked it better. So I guess it's for her as well. And of course, for Galaxy who drew Sissy on his broom and inspired the next chapter ( users.domaindlx.com/littleneedle/sissyneville.jpg ).  
  
---  
  
sissy!neville  
  
Chapter One: Sissy Boy  
  
'Sissy Boy' I call him, my bottom lip taut and twisting below a hard row of straight, bone-white teeth. And this is when he folds in on himself and tucks his one lilting, pale wrist behind his back, his little lamb chest shuddering and proud all at once; pressing out and straight-necked the way Parkinson likes to do whenever I enter a room. And I say it again but this time so Potter behind him can hear.   
  
'Sissy Boy' hissed past his ear and a quiet other handful of do-gooder's. He doesn't budge an inch the way I would have predicted (flustered and damp under his collar and even more between the clutch of his little girl thighs). He twitches and looks directly up at Professor scraping a chart out in yellow chalk powder to match his fingers. I would say he hadn't heard me at all had that pink little neck not gone even pinker than usual. I lick my teeth and they're as dry as bone ought to be, my tongue sticking and scraping over the plate of my mouth. And right away that gets me to thinking about how wet and willing that little sissy mouth would be under mine, compared to my own, which is always dry. I lick my teeth until they are slick and smooth and now I notice Potter staring.  
  
I open my eyes wide and tilt my head. Fuck you, I think I say, and I know he hears it. I draw my lip back over the dagger of a long tooth and Mudblood is too late in reminding him of who's grace it is he shames. Potter has his wand out a little too quickly and a little too eagerly and now he's got Head of House descending down on his seething chicken form. By the look on his face he knows I really meant it when I said to him, Fuck you.   
  
---  
  
Today Potter teaches the little girl to fly a broomstick and today, at precisely the right time, Slytherin hits the pitch for early morning training. He's teetering already, half off and half on, his work robes on the ground, folded over Potter's own damp, wrung robe, hair half as fair as mine combed behind white ridged little lobes. I lick my teeth and breathe bitter, sharp air in past them in quick succession. It feels like I've swallowed mint pulp whole by the sudden itch and sting my throat constricts around.   
  
Short, irritated orders tell the rest of them to get to it and then it's comfortably just little girl and Scar and I. 'What's doing, Malfoy?' Potter asks it and of course I don't answer. 'So how about it, sissy boy, finally learning to ride a broom.' I tighten my black hide grip around the handle of my better-than-potter's broom and listen appreciatively to the thick burn and groan it makes against the grain. I smile widely over the word 'ride' just to see the shadow of weak, delectable shame it brings to the little girl's eyes and the blank, barely valid glaze it brings to Potter's perfect oblivion.   
  
He looks to Hero the way I look to my own damned father and my cock is thick with the knowledge that he knows there isn't a soul to protect him from me now. 'Come on, Neville, it's only Malfoy.' That is all Potter says and the little girl has never looked more panicked. Trapped in a 'hard' place, I want to say. They don't turn from me or face away or even further themselves a step or two. Potter thinks this will tell me they aren't bothered by me but I know, of yes, I know that at least one of them is far more than 'bothered' by me.   
  
Potter helps him up steady onto his practice broom and he wobbles; slender wood slipping up between quaking, clenched knees, the tips of his booted toes dangling just enough from the ground to keep it in its place. Potter saves the day and catches him around the wan curve of his back. He giggles nervously, wrapping warm, rosy little fingers around his Hero forearm, pressing to his strong Hero shoulder; round, begging mouth suddenly dark and parted and practically crying out for Potter to please, oh please, notice him. 'Oh, thank you, Harry.' He looks up at Potter through his eye lashes and even from where I stand I see the hope and endless longing in that fluttering, limpid gaze.   
  
Potter smiles brightly, eyes squinting, shattering poor pretty's hopes and dreams with one harsh Hero slap to his narrow, little girl back. I smile widely in sugary, lemon-bright imitation with just a little too much tooth to be sincere. He will not look at me. This goes on for as long as my team stays in the air; a touch of Potter's dirty palm to his thigh, a sticky huff of breath to his neck and the poor boy is a trembling mess. The worst of it being the touch to his thigh; he stills and then curls into his protector's chest as best he can with that long, hard length still firm between his legs, parting his knees underneath that fumbling hand until it's half way slid between his tender little gosling legs. And then dumb Potter finds a better use for that strong Hero hand, slipping down to reposition a small set of powdery, arched feet to their proper rests. The little doll slips again.   
  
---  
  
'Ten points from Gryffindor, I think --- and detention. With me.' I've caught him without Scar Head to protect him on his way to Potions and what kind of a corrupted Prefect would I be if I let something like Longbottom alone pass me by? He draws himself up all stout and indignant in front of me and I almost grin in endearment at the little bow and swell of his rounded, heaving little bitty chest. We're in the same year and in true form I stand a foot taller and inches broader than his own weak, wispy body will ever be.   
  
I take a quiet step toward him without a beat between his stand against me and his now faltering surge of confidence. I smile my kind of wide, maniacal smile down at him and take another step forward. Just like any Gryffindor, he is too quick to draw his sword -- or his wand in this case -- and I have him and his weapon of choice in my hand, pressed against the cold, hard wall before any one curse can stumble from his gnashing, stung little mouth.   
  
He performs as expected now and submits all weak and breathless when I get him up against the wall between my wand and rough stone. He chokes on the same sissy, panicked little cry I remember from first year and I think I want to help make another before Potter arrives to save the day once more.   
  
I press two wands to the concave dip in the center of his chest and drop my other hand nice and slow to rest at the smooth leather cord of his belt as if I might dip my hand inside. The swell of his chest stops mid-hitch and his eyes are just too wide with fear to disappoint. Moving at my own leisurely pace I press my hand straight down past his hip to rest on his thigh where another more Heroic hand had once strayed. He gives to me the softest sound from that little girl throat and I slip my hand down enough to grasp the inside of one warm, downy thigh. Damp for me like I knew he would be. He whimpers, mouth open and gasping around his mouthful of now forgotten words.   
  
'Is this what you think you want, sissy boy?' gentle in his ear. I watch as the colour of his lobe blooms to match the pink gash of his mouth. 'Is this what you think you want from Potter, Longbottom?' breathed a little harsher this time. 'Do you really think perfect Potter want to touch his pristine hands to a sissy little girl like you?' Spat.   
  
He shudders like a tidal and appears to be struggling with himself under the expanse of that too-soft skin. His lip curls up over one sharp tooth and the sound he expels from those virginal lips is nothing short of erotic; ground out, tight and sour, reminding me of a widow in her darkest grief than over a boy merely trapped up against a wall. He tilts his head back against the stone in a final, defiant gesture and when I do kiss him it is half as harsh as I had expected and twice as tender. That's not to say the kiss was at all gentle as I was planning on a little pain with my pleasure.   
  
I crook his neck a little and my tongue touches his before even my lips do. He gives me another first year cry and I swallow it up between my teeth like I did that winter air. He kisses like a young girl being ravaged might; teeth scraping where they shouldn't, lips pressing at every chance, terrified in one moment when I suck his tongue in my crudest insinuation and breathless the next when I lap at the abused and stretched little corners of his lips.   
  
He shudders against me in little jerks and anxious clicking swallows, his head tilted to one side helping to expose the pink, rubbed dip of his neck and collar bone. I breathe on him and whisper so quietly into his ear all of the things I think a sissy little thing like him wants from a strong, growing boy like me. His answering whimper is so solitary in its desperation I hold my hand back from squeezing exactly where it wants to in fear of actually causing him any real harm.  
  
He makes a wet, confused sound around my tongue before first bell rings and then I let him run to the class we will share for the remainder of the afternoon. Not before, of course, we make our arrangements for tonight's Detention; him desperate to run from me, mouth still red, neck still sweaty, jumper still untucked and me just as leisurely as I please. I can only offer to him one of my best smug, toothy smiles when it turns out that Neville has three hours of wand less potions lesson ahead of him in the company of his most 'beloved' Professor.  
  
©anti-clique inc. 


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